《Tick-Tock》


 Prologue

    The waiting room''s walls had been freshly painted a stark white, and the blood that was stained there was now unseen.The coat of paint was fresh enough that you could smell it, the metallic scent becoming known to you as soon as you entered.


    There were also white chairs on the right side; they all faced a large clock on the left, which had made itself known by its loud and abhorrent ticking. The chairs were not cushioned and were made of hard plastic and metal; if they were to scrape, the sound would be louder than the clock''s ticking.


    There was a lone door in the waiting room, or more commonly known as the waiting hallway. It was made of dark oak wood and stood out among the white, like a polar bear in the Sahara desert. The door handle was made of metal and seemed cold to touch, considering the air-conditioner on the roof was quietly blowing straight on it.


    I am restless within this room, though I had been in here many times. There were many memories that were held in this room, many of which I have not the courage to grasp.


    There is one memory that I do hold within my palms, however.I am the reason why the walls have been repainted. The blood that is caked on the walls is my own, though most of it has been scrubbed off, and all has been painted over.


    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!That memory in particular is a long one, full of mysteries and dark secrets, some of which I do not even know. Mysteries and secrets that have been left to the void to rot alone.


    As I start to reminiscence that memory, I hear a click. I look up from my chair to see that my counsellor, Miss Jane Rick, is standing there. I see her beckon to me with her finger.


    "It''s time for your session now, Liam," she says, and she smiles warmly. I smile back hesitantly, and she then notices my restlessness. Her right eyebrow raises a bit, but then goes back down again as I stand and walk over to her. My footsteps are loud and noisy in the hallway.


    As I approach the door, Jane moves aside. I walk into the familiar room and sigh, moving to sit on the black couch in front of me.


    "A penny for your thoughts?" Jane questions as she closes the door.


    My mind is in circles for multiples reasons right now, but she doesn''t need to know that. The bloodied memory has come back, and I wish I had never come here today.


    But here is a thought aimed for the curious readers, as I know that you have questions already:


    Yes, I do know that the waiting room is weird; there''s a reason to that. You shall know soon.

 Memory One: Part One, The Start Of All

    I walked with my non-existent tail between my legs; the feeling of shame pouring over me with what seemed to be a bucket.


    Lights shimmered around me, but I didn''t bother to glance at them. I didn''t want to see them; to me they were the symbols of my failure. I had just come out of a night club in one of the back streets of the city, the streets where you could find hookers and in-person black market dealers, along with multiple gangs who were thirsty for blood and money.


    I couldn''t remember which city it was; to say I traveled was probably an understatement at this time.


    All I remember doing was walking until the sun came up.


    ~*-*~


    Obviously, that wasn''t the whole start to the memory. Well, it wasn''t really the memory at all; it was more like something that I was telling myself, to forget the truth. Us humans do it all the time, so I wouldn''t be surprised.


    I remember how desperate I felt that night; it was weighing down on me like a building, or a wooden table, or even a shopping trolley. It haunted me like a ghost who hadn''t completed their business. Needless to say, I was desperate.


    Desperate for what, exactly?


    Well, reader, I was desperate for many things at the time. Money. Power. Love. Life. Maybe a nice house, too. Something to hold onto in this plane of existence where everyone and everything doesn''t actually matter. Yes, I know, that did just get really deep. Thank you for pointing it out because I totally didn''t notice.


    Anyway, because I was so desperate, I would go to long measures to get what I wanted, though it almost never worked out in my favor. I remember getting beaten up multiple times on the streets because they (and when I say ''they'', I mean gangs) wanted a fight. They would bet on who would win, and whoever won got around a thousand dollars for their ''hard work'', and the loser had to give some of their money up. Surprisingly, I would sometimes win, and that would be my cash for the week.


    Cash, of course, to buy things. When I say things, I mean one-night-stands with various women. They were alright, I guess. They had to make a living somehow. I would even give extra to the ones with personality.


    But that''s enough of that. You want to see my memories, yes? Well then, I''ll show them to you. We''ll start with the first one, obviously, and work our way from there. There may be time gaps, but you don''t mind that, right?


    ~*-*~


    Memory One: Part One, The Start Of All


    It was just like any other night.Several clouds hogged the moon''s light, and the world was dim. People flocked the streets, looking for bars and nightclubs to waste away in. I was one of those people.


    I was once again in the lower streets of a city, which I still do not remember the name of. It was a large city, for sure, and I believe that I was in America at the time.


    The Darling Hen.That was one of the club''s names that I remember. I, to this day, don''t know it was called that. It was a stripping club, so I guessed that the girls were called ''hens''. We don''t need to talk about my various experiences there. It''s not relevant.


    As I walked down one street in particular, I heard a series of grunts. I fixed my head toward the sound, and found myself standing in front of an alleyway that I didn''t even notice was there until now.


    The grunts didn''t sound sexual- they sounded like painful grunts. Grunts that were heard and unnecessarily let out in a fight.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Being the curious man that I was, I briefly glanced on both sides of the path that I had been walking on, to see if anyone was looking or walking down this way.


    Not many people were there, except for a bunch of girls who just walked around the corner, and a young guy, like me, who was walking towards the corner on the opposite side. Knowing this was as empty as the street was going to get, I hurried into the darkness of the alleyway.


    The alleyway was quite long, and echoed a little. There was only one entry, surprisingly, to this alleyway. It also meant that there was only one exit.


    Only one way to get out.


    My steps seemed unbearably loud as I continued further down the alleyway. I then heard more grunts, and this time, whimpers. I still believed that the noises weren''t sexual- the grunts were too angry, and the whimpers too dark. From what I concluded, there was a gang bashing a random stranger. For what reason? Who knows. Especially these days.


    I neared the end of the alleyway, my steps still continuing on their loudness. I was surprised by the fact that the gang hadn''t noticed. Maybe they thought that I was one of them, or maybe they didn''t care.


    Or they could be to engrossed in their bashing to know that I was there.


    As I took another step, I felt something slippery under my foot. Before I could react, I was on the ground, my right cheek painted with blood that was not my own. I yelped, trying to get up. It didn''t work, for I slipped and re-sank into the blood.


    This time one of the members of the small gang heard me. He turned and walked towards me, a knife in his hand. All I could do was slip and slide in the blood, and that didn''t help.


    The guy crouched down in front of me at the edge of the puddle of blood, his face contorted into a smile. He reached out a hand, and not really knowing better, I grabbed it. He pulled me upwards and got me out of the blood.


    "Thanks," I say, though if he had bad intentions, my words would not help. So I try to smile, but blood gets in my mouth. The metallic taste makes me feel sick, as I know that the blood is not my own. I spit it out next to me, well away from the man in front of me.


    "You look like you could hold your own in a fight. It would be nice to have someone like you," his smile turns into a grin, though on his face it looks twisted. I looked behind him to see another gang member beat the stranger with a wooden bat. I gulp, and turn back to him.


    "I-uh... sure." I didn''t feel like dying tonight. The man nods, his blonde hair moving as he does, and I know that I''ve made the better choice. For now, anyway.


    "Good. Now come with me. I want you to deliver the finishing blow," he turns and goes to the other members, whispering. I follow him, and they all look at me, their expressions like one of wolves; thirsty for blood. Well more of it, anyway.


    The guy with the club held his club out to me, and I took it with a slight hesitation. I was used to fighting, but not with weapons. I prided myself by the fact that I didn''t need weapons to win a fight. I supposed that would change now, considering the circumstances.


    Holding the club in both hands, I stepped over to the bloody mess. The stranger was groaning, and seemed to be saying something. I leaned in closer, straining to hear the words.


    The stranger looked up slightly, and his eyes, well one eye now, showed shock, and fear. I frowned, not understanding his shock. I could understand the fear, but not the shock.


    The stranger then whispered, the shock in his words seemingly drowning out whatever fear that resided within him.


    "Harold..." he paused, gaining whatever strength he could. His face was paling by the second. "Peterson... find him..."


    His eyes closed, and I stood. I gripped the club tighter, and brought it down upon his head.


    There was a murder that night in the alleyway. Strangely enough, I was never accused of it.


    ~*-*~


    The start of all, that was. In my opinion, it was an interesting experience. It seems that I would do anything for my survival.


    I was also embedded with a great amount of shock at the time, and I believed that shock was the thing that fueled my stupid and reckless decisions. Mostly shock and self-preservation, if I''m being completely honest. It wasn''t until later that it all crashed down upon me, and I realized my danger.


    You may have questions about the name that the stranger spoke. Harold Peterson. In my opinion, it''s an ugly name (no offense to any Harold Peterson''s!)


    I guess you''ll find out later about the name. I have to sleep now, as right now I''m writing this down in my diary, and yes, I have a diary. It''s about midnight, and I have things to do tomorrow. Like memory hunting.


    I''ll tell you about the next part of my memory tomorrow, when I can properly see, and I am not writing by candlelight.


    I really need to pay my bills, don''t I?


    See you tomorrow, readers of my diary.


    ~LF